


Evade

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chases, Hiding, M/M, Sherlock is Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock's on the run. His only hope is thinking as John Watson would...





	Evade

**Author's Note:**

> From a conversation with Lonewarg earlier in the year. Too many spoilers to tell you about it, but it was fun...

John would look for him.

Sherlock had to keep that thought in the front of his mind. It was the knowledge that would keep him calm, keep him from doing something stupid as he evaded capture for as long as possible.

_If only I knew where John was right now._

This was so much harder to do on his own. With John by his side, he was safer, and not just because the man had extensive combat training. His presence was soothing, something Sherlock could sorely do with right now. Instead he had to comfort himself with the idea of John, of the image of his face when he found Sherlock.

He would need to be especially clever not to be caught by the people who would take him to see The Original Woman. Other than Adler, she was the only one he’d ever listened to, respected somewhat; right now she was gunning for him, sending her people out to find him.

Where would John look for him? Sherlock knew the only way out of this was to think like John, to make sure his actions were based on John’s knowledge of him. Nothing else would ensure success. As long as he thought like John…no, the way he imagined John would try and think like _him_ …things would be fine.

He felt his heart pounding as he backed into the cupboard. Crouched low, tucking his legs in, cursing their length, wincing at the loud scrape of his shoes against the hard floor. Deep breathing, keeping his heartrate within reasonable levels. It was the only way to survive this. The consequences if he failed…

No. He had to think positive. He’d done this before, he could do it again. Even without John to support him.

Sherlock listened intently. There were the usual sounds from the street, and this house, but nothing out of the ordinary. The knowledge eased his worry a little. Maybe he’d lost the man who’d been tailing him…

Hugging his legs, he leaned his cheek against his knees, checking his internal clock. It had been eleven hours since he had seen John. The distance between them made him anxious. What was John thinking about? Was he worried about Sherlock? Annoyed, thinking he’d run off without a reason?

Before he could think about it too much, there was a creak on the stairs. He caught his breath. That was not a usual sound for this house.

Jesus, he’d been found already. Straining, he listened for the tread, praying it was a friend come to rescue him. The indignity of being hauled out of this cupboard would be nothing compared to the inevitable events to follow.

Like a child, he held his breath as soft footfalls made their way along the corridor. His rapid heartrate forced him to breathe, and he did it as quietly as possible, waiting for the unknown person to pass him. To his alarm they stopped right outside his hiding place.

A loud exhale. Sherlock clenched his arms around his knees even tighter.

“Sherlock,” the sing-song voice came. “I’m looking for you. You can’t get away from me, we both know it. Why don’t you just come out and we can get on with things. Honestly, I’m getting so bored of doing this.”

When he didn’t move, he wondered if the man would leave. Did he actually know where Sherlock was hiding, or was this a guess? Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to make it any easier. Not when the man’s intentions were so clear.

Slowly, the footsteps moved away, Sherlock’s body relaxing incrementally as the sound faded. He listened for the external door opening and closing before blowing out a single long breath. Safe.

Fifteen minutes, he decided, setting his internal alarm. He’d wait fifteen minutes before moving; this had been too close for comfort. He needed to recalibrate, to think once again like John, or like John’s version of himself. Only then would he stand a chance of getting out of this without consequences.

 _Come on John,_ he thought with a hint of desperation. _Be predictable. Be what I need you to be._

Fourteen minutes and fifty seconds later, Sherlock eased the door to his cupboard open. He listened, but the house was silent; nothing was out of place. He sensed nobody, so unfolded his body from the uncomfortable hiding place. Stretching, Sherlock surveyed the carpet. The footsteps were exactly what he thought; he had been lucky the man taunting him had not come looking.

That outcome would have been…undesirable.

Having spent the last fifteen minutes deciding on a course of action, Sherlock made his way through the house to the roof, climbing out the widow and up onto the balcony, breathing open air for the first time in hours.

He welcomed the descending darkness; it would help conceal him. If he could only hold out until first light, things would be much more in his favour. If he could just…

“Sherlock.”

The voice made his spine stiffen; he did not allow himself any other reaction. Bitter disappointment swelled in him at his failure, and he turned resignedly to face the man standing at the far end of the balcony.

“Not going to sing to me this time?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

The man was exasperated, Sherlock could see that. He wasn’t moving closer, which was a bonus, though Sherlock was not foolish enough to underestimate him. He was just as dangerous from five metres as he was from one. Sherlock had the marks to prove it.

_John, why couldn’t you save me?_

“Cliché as it sounds, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the man said. “Your choice.”

Sherlock sighed. “Why do we have to do it at all?” he asked. The question was only partly rhetorical; he maintained the hope that he might be able to talk his way out of this, slim as the chance might be. “You can just turn around and count to ten, and I’ll be gone.” He shrugged as though it could be so easy. “Just tell them you couldn’t find me.”

The man snorted. “We both know that wouldn’t fly. Besides, a car’s waiting for us downstairs.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock sighed. “I suppose there’s no way to avoid this at all? Nothing I could offer you to change your mind?”

“Nope,” came the reply, and the military training was evident as the man strode towards Sherlock. “So have you decided? Easy way or hard way. I’d rather know now than have to start chasing you halfway down the building.”

“Easy, I suppose,” Sherlock said.

_Might as well. If John’s not going to get me out of this, I’ll have to do it myself._

He turned around, ready to make his way back into the window. A plan was forming, but it relied on speed and accuracy – two things he was lacking with limbs still recovering from being crammed into that cupboard and the failing light out here.

Before he could put his plan into action, he felt his arm tugged behind his back. Before he could react, he was handcuffed to something.

This was not in the plan.

“What are you…did you just handcuff us together?” Sherlock asked in disbelief. Dammit, and he’d left his usual pick on the bathroom sink after washing his hair the previous night. There would be no quick escape from this one. He stared at the metal now connecting him to the determined looking solider before him.

“Yes,” the man replied. His expression softened as he looked at Sherlock. “I know you left your pick at home, it’s in the bathroom.”

Sherlock was speechless. How could he…

“Of course I know,” came the reply. “I know everything about you.” A smug eyebrow arched at him. “I found you here, didn’t I? Stuffed in that cupboard for hours, then out over the rooftops.”

Sherlock sighed, finally accepting the truth.

John was not going to save him.

He couldn’t even save himself.

As they tramped through the house, Sherlock spoke again, breaking the injured silence he’d been cradling since the rooftop.

“I was hoping you’d save me.”

John chuckled. “Come on Sherlock, it’s your bloody birthday. You can play this elaborate game of hide and seek every year, if you want, but I will always find you, and we will always dine with your parents.” He paused. “You mother isn’t all that pleased, by the way.”

Sherlock groaned. It was worse than he’d thought.

“Fine,” he said, resigned to his fate. “Take me to her, then.”


End file.
